


Naked Footsteps On Thorns

by OwenToDawn



Category: Big Bang (Band), Winner (Band)
Genre: Crossdressing, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gender Fuckery, M/M, Non-Sexual Crossdressing, Non-Sexual Submission, Painting, Platonic BDSM, Platonic Dom/sub, Service Kink, Service Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwenToDawn/pseuds/OwenToDawn
Summary: Jiyong paints clothing. And Minho…Minho serves.
Relationships: Kwon Jiyong | G-Dragon/Song Minho | Mino
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	Naked Footsteps On Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> Seungri fans aren't welcome here fuck off
> 
> Hi! This fic wrote itself in about twenty four hours. I hope it's enjoyable.
> 
> Title from El Cántaro Roto by Octavio Paz, which is the poem used for the lyrics of Cloudburst by Eric Whitacre which is referenced in this fic - I know, that's really convoluted but work with me. I highly recommend listening to the orchestral version of Cloudburst when you reach that point of the fic but that's just me
> 
> Comments are loved. thanks to bbymino for letting me talk about this idea for the last 24 hours

Jiyong hums along with the music just a hair off key. Minho sweats from the exertion of holding still as he feels Jiyong press down with a brush and then slide it across the side of his tank top, smearing a thick navy blue line of fabric paint across it in the process. A fan whirs in the corner, pushing the fumes towards the open balcony door on the far side of Jiyong’s bedroom. On the bed lies a cotton white summer dress with lace at the hem. He tries not to cry.

“Almost done,” Jiyong says, his voice soft but firm as he steps back, eyes tracing over the marks he’s pained across the white shirt Minho wears. “Keep holding still for me.”

As if Minho would dare move. It’s not that he’s scared of Jiyong getting angry if he messes up his careful artwork. It’s that he’s spent the whole afternoon serving as a canvas. His feet ache. So do his arms. To ruin their combined hard work after so many hours would devastate him, even if he and Jiyong would be the only ones to ever see these.

Being an idol is a nightmare in many ways. It wreaks havoc on the brain, sending worries and half formed thoughts clamoring around for attention at the buzz of a phone on silent or the flicker of a camera light that could just be one’s imagination. It leaves people keyed up with energy. The only way to survive is to have an outlet. Jiyong paints clothing. And Minho…Minho serves.

Sometimes it’s more than this. It’s hours on his knees, holding a jar of paint brushes and water as Jiyong paints chaotic designs over expensive name brand jeans. It’s cooking Jiyong a meal to perfection and feeding it to him a bite at a time before cleaning the kitchen spotless. It’s massaging Jiyong’s legs and feet and hips after a long practice. It’s drawing Jiyong a bath and meticulously washing every inch of him before tucking him in bed. Service. Something to make his brain turn off and focus at the task at hand until the anxiety fizzles away.

They’ve talked about even more though. Things that are sexual in nature. Minho hadn’t been sure he wanted it, still isn’t sure really, even after a week ago when he’d stroked Jiyong’s cock after bathing him, pushing him over and into an orgasm that had been breath taking to watch. He’d liked it then. He thinks he’d even do it again, but the vulnerability required to let Jiyong touch him back scares him to his core.

Still, there’s something that terrifies him even more than that.

The record comes to an end and Jiyong frowns. He sets his palette of paints down on the dresser and steps behind Minho, muttering under his breath as he flips through his record collection. Minho inhales. The exhale comes out shaking and rough. He can almost feel Jiyong go still behind him, the rapid noise of him going through his records falling silent. A hand touches his hip.

“Color?”

Jiyong’s breath caresses the back of his neck and Minho inhales again, sharp, eyes burning.

“Yellow.”

“Okay.”

Fingers push his arms away from his sides and begin to undo the safety pins holding the sides of the tank top together. Jiyong grabs the shoulders of it and Minho ducks down so he can remove it, walking into the bathroom with quick steps to lay it out to dry. He returns before Minho can even count to ten. Arms wrap around his bare torso, holding him close, and then a dry kiss presses to the space between his shoulders.

“Thank you for doing so well for me. What upset you?” Jiyong asks.

“I…” Minho glances at the dress. His stomach rolls. “I’m scared.”

“Ahh.” Jiyong kisses his shoulders one at a time.

_Be Kind. Be Nice._

“We don’t have to do this today,” Jiyong says. He lets go of Minho and moves to stand in front of him, blocking the dress from view. “You’ve done a lot for me today and I go could for a bath if you want to stop now.” He smiles, patient and kind and Minho thinks maybe he’s a little bit in love with the softness in Jiyong’s eyes.

“I want to,” Minho says. “I just don’t know how when I’m afraid.”

“Yes, it is quite scary, isn’t it?” Jiyong asks. There’s nothing remotely patronizing in his words. He turns and moves towards the bed, tugging the white dress off the mattress and holding it up by the thin shoulder straps. It has a tight waist and flares out as it goes down, likely ending just above his knees. “So much significance in one piece of fabric because we can’t help but push meaning on things where they don’t belong.”

He approaches Minho and it takes everything in him not to shrink away as Jiyong hands it to him. His gaze is like steel – sharp and unbreakable.

“Put it on, Minho.”

And Minho obeys, because that’s what he’s here to do. It’s not bad or wrong because Jiyong told him to do it, Jiyong wants him to wear it so he can paint, it doesn’t have to mean anything at all. He can just be the mannequin for Jiyong’s art. Lace tickles his knees as he adjusts the straps. Jiyong steps behind him, sliding the zipper up, up, up, until it’s closed. Until the fabric clings to Minho’s waist and falls to extenuate hips that he doesn’t have.

“Perfect,” Jiyong says. “One moment.”

He leaves Minho’s side and returns to his record player and Minho focuses on the sound of him sliding a record out and putting it in place so he doesn’t have to think about the way the wind blows through the balcony door and makes the fabric of the dress slip against his thighs. He startles when loud brass sounds filters through Jiyong’s speakers before backing off to something quieter.

“I managed to get a custom pressed record of various orchestral music I like,” Jiyong says. “Some of the artists I bothered were rather confused by my request but allowed it on the condition I didn’t try to sell it.”

“Oh…”

“This one is interesting.” Jiyong steps back towards him, grabbing his palette and adding brown and yellow and white and orange and green to the empty spaces before grabbing a brush. “Cloudburst by a foreign composer, Eric Whitacre. The music builds like an oncoming thunderstorm and when he lets it break…well, you’ll see.”

Minho doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all. Jiyong steps up to him, dips his paint in green and begins to paint. Line after line, some intersecting as they make their way across his chest. There are seams in the fabric meant to support anatomy he doesn’t have. Jiyong slashes a bright line of green through it and paints an upside-down leaf. The brass mellows out to something dark and rich. The way the chords progress makes something in Minho’s chest ache, the notes feeling melancholy and lonely and making his throat tighten. He doesn’t know why Jiyong would pick this.

Jiyong sets the brush aside and grabs a new one, dipping it in a mix of yellow and just a touch of brown to darken it before crouching down and beginning to paint along Minho’s stomach. Minho doesn’t look. He stares ahead as the brass builds on itself like chimes, swelling and building with each of Jiyong’s careful strokes of the brush. It tickles in a way Jiyong painting on the shirt didn’t. The fabric of the dress clings much tighter to his skin.

Another brush, bigger. A mix of yellow and white for something pastel. He paints the insides of whatever he outlined, broad strokes that help ground Minho again. The music crests and falls, but it doesn’t feel like the end yet. Silence and then the sound of an oboe, alone, as it repeats the melody from earlier and Jiyong grabs a new brush. This one goes straight in the brown, mixes with a little of the leftover black, and then Jiyong begins to paint in swirls around his navel.

Bells begin to chime, rhythm seemingly random as they hit notes throughout the chord progression. The brass adds in again. The notes swell back up, the sound of a woodblock cracking together and then another noise, something like hundreds of hands snapping. Jiyong drops the brush and grabs something smaller, mixes it with the orange and yellow and a little bit of brown before he goes back in. The noises crash together again, swelling and breaking and Minho gets why the song is named what it is. His skin shivers from the feeling of Jiyong’s brush and the sound of gentle snapping that mimics the sound of rain and he inhales, eyes sliding shut as he begins to cry.

Not hard. Just a few stray tears that track down his cheeks and pool at the hollow of his throat. Jiyong hums a noise of assurance and steps away, setting the palette and brushes aside before returning to Minho’s side. A thumb traces the tear tracks. Dry lips press to his cheek. Jiyong grabs his wrist and tugs him across the room with a gentleness that makes something rattle around in Minho’s chest.

"I’ve got you, you don’t have to open your eyes yet,” Jiyong says. “Come on.” Another few steps and then Jiyong turns him. “You can open your eyes whenever you’re ready.”

The music continues to fade. A few snaps. The occasional rumble of a bass drum like thunder. Jiyong steps away from him, back towards the record player, lifting the needle before the next song can begin. Silence. A beat. Another.

Minho opens his eyes and takes in his image in the mirror Jiyong’s placed him in front of. The dress fits well, even if it is meant for a woman, and he doesn’t look…bad. He doesn’t look like a freak. His eyes drop to the design on the dress. Flower stems of varying lengths twist their way across the skirt of the dress and the tops and sides, all flowing inward to a large sunflower that radiates out like a sunburst near his abdomen. It’s beautiful. The dress is beautiful. He’s…

“Beautiful,” Jiyong says, stepping up behind him. He kisses the back of Minho’s neck like before, his gaze meeting Minho’s in the mirror as his hands cup Minho’s hips. “You look gorgeous, Minho.”

“I can’t.”

"No?” Jiyong asks, raising an eyebrow. He presses a kiss to Minho’s shoulder next to the strap of the dress. “That’s odd. Because I find you quite gorgeous.”

He can’t. He can’t. He can’t be gorgeous. It’s freakish, weird, demeaning, there’s nothing gorgeous about too bony hips and too broad of shoulders in a dress meant for someone of a completely different gender. It _can’t_ be anything but horrible, the butt of a joke, a silly thing for him to do in a variety show, on stage, something to make people laugh.

“Minho. Do you want to be pretty?” Jiyong asks.

Minho can’t even meet Jiyong’s eyes in the mirror anymore, gaze too clouded by tears. “I…of…of course I…”

Jiyong’s fingers trail down his arm, wrapping around the hollow of his elbow. “Of course…?”

“Yes. I want to…be pretty.”

Jiyong pops up on his tiptoes, hooking his chin over Minho’s shoulder to press his lips to Minho’s ear. “You are Minho. You are pretty.”

And Minho’s fucking gone.

-.-

When he’s aware again, he’s in a warm bath, head tucked into Jiyong’s neck with their naked bodies entwined together. Jiyong’s fingers push through his hair and he kisses his forehead as he hums along with the jazz music filtering in through the open bathroom door from the bedroom. He pulls back, sitting up and shivering as he emerges from the warm water, and glances around. The dress hangs on a hanger on the glass door of the shower to dry. He flushes when he sees it, unable to look at it for long.

“How long have I been…” Minho isn’t sure how to finish his question as he looks back at Jiyong. He’s not sure he’d describe it as subspace, but perhaps it was. He feels…relaxed in a way he hasn’t in months.

“About thirty minutes,” Jiyong says. “I decided to move us to the bath to keep you warm. And I wanted to hold you.”

Minho can feel his face heat even more as his lips quirk up in a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

"You don’t like feeling alone when you’re that deep, and given the circumstances, I wasn’t entirely comfortable letting you go,” Jiyong says.

“Being touched makes me nervous,” Minho says. “Like this anyways. It’s easier when I’m not really…”

“Aware?”

Minho nods. “But it’s nice.”

Jiyong’s hands grab his hips, his grip firm. “We need to talk more about your hang ups about clothing after this. But for now, we can do whatever you’d like.”

Minho looks up at him. Swallows. “Just this for a little longer.”

Jiyong smiles and tugs him in again, wrapping his arms easily around Minho’s shoulders and Minho rests his cheek against the base of Jiyong’s throat. “Alright.”


End file.
